


Descent to the valley

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, First Time, lesbianism cures all ills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5627137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Queen Lucy,” King Lune introduces her. Another Queen, in Tash’s name; how many Queens do these northern lands have? Queen Lucy smiles at her, though, and she forgets her puzzlement in the warmth of that look.</p>
<p>Aravis has met Tarkeenas across Calormen: women silly and wise and foolish and dull and quick-witted, and if not warm, then at least hospitable as befits their rank. She has liked some of them, and held just a few as dear, trusted friends; but in Calormen trust comes slowly, as does affection.</p>
<p>Queen Lucy grasps both of Aravis’s hands, and she kisses her, and Aravis likes her immediately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descent to the valley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beyonces_fiancee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyonces_fiancee/gifts).



She can feel the words spinning out of her, tracing shapes through the air: the horses, the Lion, their hearts all beating wardrums in their chests. Shasta – no, Cor, now – turning back; his bravery, his nobility. The Lion’s words are heavy on her back, her shoulders, her throat, and so she speaks only of Cor and not of herself. 

The hall is large, but quite unlike those in Calormen. The stone walls are covered in tapestries and the chairs in furs, for which Aravis is thankful. Though it be spring, the mountain air slides icily against her skin, and she hopes she will soon have more than the tattered rags of her disguise to warm her. 

At the end of her story, King Lune bows his head deeply to her, eyes shining with feeling for his new-found son’s bravery. Cor, too, looks at her with bright eyes; she knows not why, and she does not hold his gaze. Only Corin looks more delighted than affected. 

They sit close together, and she far from them.

The quiet air is broken by a woman rounding the corner into the hallway: a woman unlike any Aravis has yet seen in this strange land. She wears a fitted bodice of leather and skirts that, when she strides, reveal themselves to be split like trousers, but quite unlike those Aravis might wear in Calavar, which are soft and gather at the ankle and are, she has found, entirely unsuitable for riding. She wears a small dagger at her hip, and her belt, too, has a hook for a quiver.

“Queen Lucy,” King Lune introduces her. Another Queen, in Tash’s name; how many Queens do these northern lands have? Queen Lucy smiles at her, though, and she forgets her puzzlement in the warmth of that look.

Aravis has met Tarkeenas across Calormen: women silly and wise and foolish and dull and quick-witted, and if not warm, then at least hospitable as befits their rank. She has liked some of them, and held just a few as dear, trusted friends; but in Calormen trust comes slowly, as does affection.

Queen Lucy grasps both of Aravis’s hands, and she kisses her, and Aravis likes her immediately.

“Come,” she says, “We cannot speak of matters of state until King Edmund returns, so let us leave the family to know one another again and settle you in your rooms.” She hooks her arm through Aravis’s, the wool of her sleeve warm against the bare skin inside Aravis’s elbow. The Queen’s trousers brush her ankles as they walk together.

“I have heard about your journey here,” the Queen says as they walk, “and that you encountered a lion.” She seems to want to say more, but does not. Their feet echo in step on the stone floors.

“I missed the battle,” Aravis says. She knows that Queen Lucy and her sister both bear arms in battle, and her own scimitar is as deadly as any man’s. Or, nearly. “I would fight next to you, my Queen.” She knows it to be true, with a deep, sudden surety. 

The Queen stops, looks at her. Their eyes are nearly on a level. “I hope we have no more occasions for fighting within my reign,” she says, and Aravis feels abashed. “But I would have your sword, if it does come to it.”

“I would be brave,” Aravis says, quite fiercely. The mettle of her bones draws close as under the Queen’s still-watchful eyes she feels made a child again, gangling limbs and too-earnest mouth.

“I know that. You have already been so,” the Queen says. “It is brave to choose for yourself when others tell you that you cannot.” She pulls her arms closer, and Aravis’s hand tucks against the leather of her bodice. It is warmed by the heat of her body. 

The Queen begins walking again, but their shoulders and hips stay pressed together. The next words come slowly, as though with sorrow. “Knowing what is right when all those around you are telling you their thoughts can be difficult.” 

“It was a small thing,” Aravis says. The Queen watches their feet as they walk, and Aravis would make her smile. “My would-be husband didn’t start a war over me.” It works; the Queen gives a small, laughing huff; the corner of her mouth that Aravis can see turns up a bit. 

“My sister is very beautiful,” she says, as if that explains it. “And men can be very foolish.” 

She stops at a doorway, abruptly enough that Aravis has to pull her step up short to not collide with her. The handle is heavy iron and cold to the touch; Aravis mourns the loss of Queen Lucy’s warm body next to her as she pushes it open. 

The light in the chamber is mellow and low, from two narrow windows in the far wall. The fireplace is as tall as Queen Lucy stands and bears a small pile of wood ready for the evening. In the center of the room, a tall bed imposes, heavy drapery all around it in the same green as the meadow around the castle walls.

She walks the room, touches its surfaces, wonders if she will ever feel she knows this new, strange, red castle nestled in the crook of the mountains the same way she knew her father’s palace in Calavar, as she knew the woods around it. 

“Will you stay?” The Queen asks. She is watching Aravis closely when Aravis turns, and she doesn’t look away as they catch eyes. 

“I don’t know.” Traveling has taught her that the world is wider than ever she thought, and she would like to see more. She wonders if she will ever find a great hall full of those she calls family, a bed warm and welcoming each night. 

Queen Lucy steps closer into the heart of the room. Her fingers trail idly over the carved wooden bedpost. “You have choices, now,” she says. “You’ve no obligation to any soul.”

“No,” Aravis agrees, and thinks that she would, willingly, give obligation to the Queen before her.

“If you stay in Archenland, you needn’t marry any man you don’t choose.” Queen Lucy flicks open the bed curtains; inside, the mattress rises at least to her hip and is topped with coverlets as fluffy and full as clouds. “You needn’t marry a man at all,” she says, and presses down against the bed with one hand. The coverlets envelop her little fist, soft and full.

“Are there other ways?” Aravis says, and steps closer. She would know Queen Lucy’s ways.

“Yes,” Lucy says, “oh yes.” When she touches her hip, Aravis shivers, and feels her warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Louise Gluck's "Descent to the Valley":
>
>> How sweet my life now  
> in its descent to the valley,  
> the valley itself not mist-covered  
> but fertile and tranquil.  
> So that for the first time I find myself  
> able to look ahead, able to look at the world,  
> even to move toward it.


End file.
